


Under The Umbrella

by charlesleeray



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Canon - Comics, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Character Death, F/M, Father Figures, Father Loss, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gangs, Ghosts, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Motherhood, Original Character(s), Orphans, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Vietnam, Vietnam War, War, loss of a loved one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:14:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22796149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlesleeray/pseuds/charlesleeray
Summary: “It is estimated that more than 140 million children worldwide, ranging from infants to teenagers, have lost one or both of their parents.”The year Hang Nguyen went missing was the same year the world almost ended.
Relationships: Klaus Hargreeves/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Under The Umbrella

**Author's Note:**

> Holy Shit.
> 
> I’ve been working on this since 2016, and it is finally done. Years of writing and finalizing and I finally finished chapter one.
> 
> A big thank you to everyone who’s helped me (especially you, Alex, and Victoria) and a HUGE thank you to everyone reading this. This has become a little project of its own, and I love it to bits.
> 
> Hope you enjoy- the first chapter of Under The Umbrella.
> 
> (@klaushargreeves on Instagram)

When her father went away, Hang was only a year old. They all piled in the back room, and before he left, her father gave her grandmother his sunglasses. They glinted in the room’s warm light, and Hang reached her stubby fingers out, mesmerized.

“Hãy giữ sức khoẻ,” he said. Take care.  
Then he was gone, and everything was relatively fine for ten years. A picture of him hung in the living room, and would later reside in Hang’s bedroom. Every Friday, Hang and her grandmother would visit her mother’s grave.  
“Anh nhớ em,” she would say, breathing in the sweet incense that would burn on the gravestones. I miss you.  
Her mother had died long before her father left, and Hang suspected that was why he left. Maybe to find someone else-- forget she was his daughter. Forget that she ever happened-- and though the concept was foreign to her, she figured he had abandoned her. She had asked her grandmother about this, but she refused to answer with anything but, “He’ll come back, one day.”  
Hang never believed it.

Growing up, she had the chance to cross the busy streets all alone and spend her time in the graveyard, lying on matted and wet grass and staring up at the sky with squinted eyes and a hand in the air. She ran across the dirt and mud, jumping over that one log that she didn’t have to jump over, but she might as well. She slowed to a stop, past the faded gravestones and onto the ones she could read. Hang placed her hands firmly together, closed her eyes, and tried her best to recite the Buddhist prayer her grandmother had taught her. 

Every Friday she visited, she would pray for one of the deceased. It was strange-- she felt a connection to them, and every Friday it would get stronger until she could feel it all around her, even in the busy streets of Saigon. It was a dense, thick air, and it followed her everywhere she went. One time, a woman had put her hand on her shoulder when she was in the cemetery, bent down, and told her that she carried an aura of death. She added that it was not a good nor bad aura, but there was something about her that spirits were attached to. She cupped Hang’s face and told her to be careful, and then Hang never saw her again. Her grandmother had picked her up and muttered under her breath. “Khùng,” she said. Crazy.

Hang thought about that now, a few years older, as she traced the same path, worn by her barren feet. The sun was setting in the west, and she raised her hand in an attempt to touch it. Everything in the world was at peace, it seemed.  
“Hello?”  
Hang whipped around instantly. Someone had spoken behind her, she was sure of it- but nobody was there. She put the palm of her hand on her head.  
“Chào buổi sáng, Hang.” Good morning, Hang.  
“It’s not… morning?”  
Turning around again, she backed away from where she first heard the voice-- but a different one whispered in her ear. “Giày của bạn đã tắt.”  
Hang looked down. Sure enough, her shoes were off-- she never really wore them outside, and if she did, she opted for sandals. She dug her toes into the dirt, clenching her hand into a fist anxiously. Inside her body, everything collapsed.  
Hang squinted her eyes, looking for something to make sense of this-- she’d heard voices before, but never so loud.

The anxiousness in her stomach was enough to bring her to the ground. Bare knees on coarse dirt, she wrapped her arms around herself. Nothing like this had ever happened before.  
“Excuse me?”  
A young man’s voice. Hang shook her head, staring intently at the ground.  
“You’re speaking English.”  
This was the first thing Hang noticed-- instead of circulating between Vietnamese and English, like most did after the Vietnamese War, they spoke in clear English.  
“I don’t speak Vietnamese.”  
“Then why are you buried in a Vietnamese graveyard?”  
The man was obviously American, clothed in a soldier’s uniform, bullet holes decorating his chest. His eyes were tired and he was ghostly pale.  
“You’re dead.”  
He nodded, eyebrows raised.  
She nodded, raising her arm to try and touch him. He looked down, a somber smile on his face.  
“The fact that you can see us… you’re not ordinary, are you?  
With that, he walked away, limping on one leg. Hang watched him, bewildered, and stood silently.  
She had just talked to a dead person. In a part of her mind, it was still unbelievable. Maybe she had dozed off, dreamt it-- but the feel of his hand was still present on her shoulder. He had called her unordinary. She raised her hand again, but felt nothing.  
She took the long way home.

A few weeks later, they moved. Hang said goodbye to the cemetery, the outside markets, and her old home. The last thing she said goodbye to was her mother’s grave. 

“Tạm biệt mẹ.” Bye, mom. “Tôi không nghĩ có nhiều điều để nói.” I don’t think there’s much to say.  
Not unlike the last time she was here, she turned clammy. Afraid. Swallowing, she started to cry.  
“Is this you?” She asked.  
“Is this-- có phải bố không Chỉ tôi thôi à?”  
Looking at her hands, she rested her forehead on the cold tombstone. “Do I get to see you again?”  
Her voice started to shake, and a breathless whisper, only heard by her and the tombstone, escaped her.  
“Will I come back again, mẹ ơi?”

The same time that Hang left Vietnam, Claire dyed her hair purple. What was originally red was now a light shade of violet, hanging over her shoulders, dripping wet.

Her hands and forehead were stained with the same color, and as she scrubbed her hands, her eyes fixated on herself.  
“You… you look like mom.”  
Her voice wavered, and even though it strained her throat to talk, she smiled. The resemblance of her to her mom was comforting, although her hair was now frayed and damaged. She ran her hands through it, closing her eyes.  
Her bliss soon ended with a knock on the bathroom door. 

“Claire,” her dad said. “You’ve spent hours in there.”  
“Would you rather me do this in the kitchen?” She snapped back, returning to the mirror.  
“I’d rather you come out here. The therapist said we should spend more time together, and you promised to if I let you buy the hair dye.”  
“Well, I’m not done.” Her voice croaked, and she shook her head.  
He still stood at the door and sighed. “You don’t have to spend time with me. It’s fine.”  
A pang of guilt struck her as he walked away, but it was gone as soon as she looked back. Claire didn't owe him anything at all. Grabbing the comb, she furrowed her brows. What did her father do for her? He took her in and left her mom for no good reason, she thought. 

Now she came to her senses and brushed stray hair out of her face. She unlocked the bathroom door and immediately turned right, walking into her room.  
It was full of newspapers, which lined the walls and the floor. Each one she had inspected in the four years she was silent, each one covered with red pen.  
Now her focus was on today's newspaper, with the headline being Here’s What YOU Need to Know: The Eiffel Tower.  
Fishing in her drawer, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes and let one hang loosely in her mouth. In her pocket was both her pen and lighter; she took the two out, lighting her cigarette and uncapping the pen. A new sense of confidence came with the purple hair. Taking a deep breath, she spoke, her voice cracking.  
“The Eiffel Tow- Towel. Shit. Towe-r.”  
She rubbed her throat. Making r-sounds was a little bit harder for her, but Claire knew she was getting better. “Tower.”  
She took a deep breath, holding her throat, and coughed out the word she had hid for so long.  
“Rumor.”

The shops situated east of town were overrun on the weekends by late-night shoppers and junkies. Hang carried a bag of groceries as she ducked and dived in the large crowd of club-goers, finding solace in an unattended cafe table. She unwrapped an apple and began eating, crossing her legs and balancing her head on her hands. She was halfway through with the apple when someone spoke up from the other side of the table.  
“Is this seat free?”  
Hang didn’t look up, only nodded, and focused on her apple. When she did look up a minute later, the table was covered in newspapers and crumbs.

“What’re you doing?”  
Claire looked up from a newspaper dated 1920.  
“I’m working. What are you doing?”  
“Eating this apple,” she replied. “Why’re doing work in a public place? Why at night?”  
She uncrossed her legs to face Claire, smiling widely.  
“Hmph. Curiosity killed the cat.”  
“But satis… satisfaction! Satisfaction brought it back.”  
Raising her eyebrows, Claire set her newspaper down. “But satisfaction brought it back, huh?”  
Throwing the apple core in the bin next to her, Hang nodded. Claire scoffed, mildly impressed.  
“I’m working on a paper about the Eiffel Tower and its history. More so focusing on how it was built into a spaceship by Gustave Eiffel himself.”  
“Spaceship?”  
Flipping her journal over and taking a bite of her sandwich, she pointed to the page. “After the moon collapsed, they found its remains on the west side of town. Alien technology.”  
“Cool,” Hang muttered.  
“Why are you out this late? A ten year old shouldn’t be unsupervised.”  
“I’m thirteen. I was going on errands.” She shrugged her shoulder, looking at the bags next to her. 

Claire put her head in her hands, thinking. Something about Hang felt familiar to her. It was almost like they’ve talked before, but she couldn’t place a time nor date.  
“What’s your name? I’m Claire Har….Smith.”  
“Harsmith?” Hang grinned, holding out her hand. “I’m Hang Nguyen.”  
“Nguyen,” she repeated. “So you’re Vietnamese?” She took her hand, shaking it. “Interesting. Most people here have lived here their whole lives. Not exactly a town you’d want to visit.”  
“My grandmother wanted to.”  
“Is the place significant to her?” Claire finished off her sandwich. “Otherwise, you’d have to be crazy to move here.”  
Hang laughed. “Maybe.”  
They locked eyes, and for a second, Claire could see some resemblance to someone she used to know. It was a stretch, but she could see- the eyes looked exactly like his.  
“You’re… do you have a-”  
Hang’s soft grin faded, and she stopped herself. “I mean.. I’m getting ahead of myself.”  
“Were you waiting for someone?”  
“Yeah. A little bit.”  
The smile returned. “Who?”  
Claire shrugged, setting down her newspaper. “A friend of mine.”  
She nodded, tugging at the plastic bags. “I have to go, I think.”  
“It’s dark,” she agreed.  
Hang stood up, and as soon as she grabbed one of her bags, everything went silent.

No music, no chattering, no footsteps… nothing. They dwelled in the quiet before Claire stood up, cuffing her sleeves.  
The first sound was low. It was like a bell, echoing, and it shook both of them. Hang walked backwards as it got louder, slowly rising in pitch.  
“Ears,” Claire whispered. “Cover them.”  
Hang placed both hands firmly over her eyes, tripping over her sandals and opting to leave them on the ground. The sound pierced through her hands, and as it grew, she whipped her head around to look for the source.  
She had expected to see nothing, but removed her hands in shock.  
In front of her stood a tall, lanky person, their mouth wide open. The length of their mouth was the length of Hang’s own body.  
Her throat went dry. Claire was nowhere to be seen, and it appeared she had run off.  
“Chết tiệt!” She cursed, the echo surrounding her.  
Without a second glance, Hang balled her fist up and focused on the table next to her- the one that held her groceries. Her arm went taut.  
The table slowly, but surely, floated up, and she backed away as it hovered over the person. 

She covered her ears, and with the disappearance of her fist, the table dropped. Black blood splattered over her, the groceries, and a shocked Claire, who held a metal tube with both her hands.  
“Did you do that?” She hissed, hand tightening over the tube. “You killed it?”  
“I killed it?” Hang mumbled. “Tôi không có ý…”  
Claire shook her head. “Holy shit. Grab your bags.” She pointed to the blood. “Don’t step in that, either.”

Her personality had changed in mere seconds- from curious to controlling, a more stubborn and angry demeanor. Hang grabbed her bags and went to put her sandals on.  
“Just pick them up,” Claire said. “If we get into more trouble on the way, I don’t want you stumbling.”  
“What do my shoes have to do with anything?”  
She didn’t respond, but started walking away. Hang picked up her shoes and jogged up to her, leaving the black, smoldering blood behind, while it shone in the light of the moon.

“Placing shoes in the reverse direction at the end of your bed confuses spirits,” Claire said, striking her lighter. “That’s one theory. Another goes back to Medieval ages, where they would conceal shoes in buildings to ward off ghosts.” She fished in her pocket for a cigarette.  
“So I can see ghosts?”  
“Levitate yourself and other things, too. But only with your shoes off.”  
Hang sniffed. “That’s stupid.”  
“Then bring it up with God,” she replied, lighting a flimsy cigarette. “What we were just attacked by usually hunts in packs, so we were lucky… this time. Might be more of them, prowling around.”  
“What are they, actually?” Hang pressed her hands together, sitting on the park’s wooden bench.  
“Sonantia.”  
“And what does that mean?”  
“Something in Latin, probably.” Claire shrugged and straightened her coat out. “I don’t know. The thing is, they’re gone now. That’s what we were hoping for.”  
“How do you know what they are?”  
“I read. Sightings of them in the mid 1900s, way up to now. Don’t know where they come from.”  
Hang looked to the right, watching the stars flicker above. “It’s weird. Being put into this position… finding this out.”  
She smiled, blowing out a thin veil of smoke. “It was for me, too.”  
“You?”  
Her face fell. “I mean, all the monster stuff.”  
They sat in silence for a while. Hang mulled over the past hour, picking at her nails and ever so often looking up at Claire.  
“Now what?”  
Claire shrugged. “Never thought I’d get this far. Never thought I’d find someone who could actually ward off these kinds of things.”  
“I don’t think I can do that.”  
“You just did it.” She stood up, flicking the cigarette onto the ground and stomping it out.  
“Tomorrow, at 2:50. Meet me at the library, the one with the statue of a rocket in front of it. We can talk more.” She glanced at the bags, and then back at Hang. “I’ll tell you more about all of this.”  
They went their separate ways, leaving the wooden bench to look up at a starless sky.


End file.
